Home on the Range
by Deirdre Jubilee
Summary: The Courier dies for a second - and last - time as they contemplate the fate of the Mojave Wasteland.


**Home on the Range**

* * *

By this point, the Courier had given up on dying.

New Vegas had been tamed, the West had been won, and the spirit of adventure had died a quiet, lonely death in the hospital room of ancient history. The world was rebuilding, reforming, and there was no place for the Courier, True Mortal of the Mojave, in it – not this time.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

As the Courier walked past the Goodsprings Cemetery and into the hills beyond, there was a moment of silence for that first death, that beautiful rebirth. For a moment, there was nostalgia for enemies long dead, battles long won, couriers long dug up. But that was fleeting.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The Radscorpions that lived in the valley below the cemetery had long been exterminated by the Courier and kept at bay so that tourists from New Vegas could visit the place where the mysterious messenger of the Mojave rose from the grave. It was safer now, quieter perhaps, but certainly not any better. The Courier stopped at the crest of the opposite hill and looked back towards the cemetery, dark and quiet in the fleeting Nevada sunset. It was not the same place it had been all those many years ago.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

Down the mountain, the Courier made their way to the town of Bonnie Springs – rebuilt after the Vipers were wiped out and the walls were fortified against the rare Cazadors and Deathclaws that managed to survive the mass extermination campaigns. There would be food and shelter there, especially for a person of the Courier's status, but the Courier could not help but remember it as a burnt-out shell – testament to the dangers of the Wastes. Instead, the Courier made a neat campfire on a nearby ridge and slept until the following morning.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The Courier walked until they reached Red Rock Canyon, laying down a sign of respect for the Great Khans who had once inhabited it. Now, they had degraded into smaller warring bands of bandits or they had been fully integrated into the society of the Mojave. The Courier ran a finger along the rock paintings, but could not stay.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The Courier reached the outskirts of New Vegas in a few days and camped in the old lairs of the Fiends. There were still signs of them about – broken and buried syringes, empty packages of Mentats, and the faintest scent of blood. All of these things made the Courier stay a little longer, but it was not to last.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The night the Courier had made the full loop around Vegas, they slept under the stars – watching in silence as the bright lights of the casinos and the growing glare from the other towns of the wastes slowly blotted out the sky as the Courier once remembered it. It was a dead sky now.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The 1-88 was a bustling highway once more– full of traders, travelers, tourists. The Courier kept to walking the road at night, although that didn't stop the occasional passerby's face from lighting up in awe when they saw a Mojave legend. It was no longer a lonely existence, travelling the Mojave Wasteland.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

As the Dino-Dee-Lite Gift Store's trademark tyrannosaurus rose up above the horizon, the Courier took an abrupt turn towards the mountains. The night was lit up by spotlights displaying the green dinosaur protector in all of his glory.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

Nipton, still rebuilding after its destruction by the Legion, was much quieter, much more comfortable. The Courier stayed in the outskirts of town, hiding from all passerby. At this distance, the Mojave Outpost's monumental statues loomed over the horizon, which was as close as the Courier could get to visiting the defunct divide between civilization and the wastes.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

It took the Courier four days to get to Primm and only two hours to leave it. It had prospered under the presence of the law and had grown to become an important trading hub for the entire Mojave. While tempted to visit the Mojave Express office a final time, the constant whirring of machinery and the occasional guitar riff in the Courier's ears would not allow it.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

The Courier looked upon Goodsprings impassively. The town where it all began had grown into a tourist attraction. The General Store sold Courier memorabilia. Prospector Salon regaled travelers in mystical tales in which the Courier single handedly brought down the Powder Gangers, in which the Courier spent three days out in the wilderness and returned with a sack full of Cazador eggs, in which the Courier was a divine creature of infinite wit, luck, and skill. Even Victor's old house – where the Courier had resided before leaving for Primm and parts unknown – had been converted into a Courier museum of sorts, memorializing every item of value the Courier had supposedly ever owned. From the gold bars stolen from deep within the mysterious Sierra Madre Casino, to the helmet of a disorderly tribal leader from the canyons of Zion, to the strange Transportalponder which could send an unsuspecting person into the dangerous crater of Big Mountain, and to the framed duster that the Courier had reportedly received after winning the Battle of the Divide from a terrifying dark doppelganger. None of this piqued the Courier's interest.

So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

In the wee small hours of the morning, the Courier made the trek to the Goodsprings Cemetery one last time. Maria felt heavy as the hour of truth fast approached. With shaking hands, two 9 mm rounds – made from two shell casings stolen from Doc Mitchell's operating table so long ago – were loaded. There wouldn't be a need for the second bullet - that much was certain - but nostalgia blinds us all. A neatly dug grave was at the ready, lovingly restored as a tourist attraction.

As the morning sun began to rise, the Courier brought a deadened head to their forehead.

A mouth whispered last words.

A calm finger pulled the trigger.

A body fell halfway into an old grave.

A morning sun rose.

The Wasteland was wild no longer.

So the Courier pressed on.


End file.
